


The Storm Clouds in Our Blue Sky

by LilypadProphet



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Annie Cresta-centric, District 4 (Hunger Games), Gen, Pre-Canon, Pre-Series, Reapings (Hunger Games)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:34:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27043564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilypadProphet/pseuds/LilypadProphet
Summary: A series of snapshots surrounding the life of Annie Cresta, starting age six and ending with her reaping.
Kudos: 6





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Thanks for reading this, it means a lot. This is how I imagined life in District Four may have been for Annie Cresta, starting at age six and ending with her reaping. It's a series of oneshots, and I'll try to incorporate two 'snapshots' into each chapter. 
> 
> Bear in mind, this is one of my first ever fanfics, so all criticism and comments would be amazing! 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games or it's characters.

She’s six years old, and the dawning realisation that the Games aren’t quite what she thought they were is only just creeping in. Like all her peers, she's a bit too young to know exactly what it means when your name is the one written on that innocent little slip of paper. When your friend’s big sister, or your neighbour, or one of the boys you see hanging round the docks at sunset, is the one to raise their fist in the air, to march proudly up to the stage, and to disappear into that shiny silver train - never to be seen again.

What she does know is that her brother won’t play with her anymore because he’s eight now, and he’s started working as a net weaver, and that momma can’t play with her either, because she’s eight months pregnant with Annie’s little brother or sister, and the simple act of getting up and dragging herself to the marketplace tires her out so much that all she can do in the afternoons is sleep.

(Father doesn’t play with her either, but it’s not much of a loss - Annie barely sees the man these days, and when she does he’s all frazzled and worn out from the long hours he puts in at the fishery.)

So, Annie has to find another way to spend her broiling summer days. The fish market is very different at midday, especially since Annie doesn’t have anyone to hold her hand, or pull her away from the crowds of drunken sailors, or stop her from accidentally slipping on a pile of rotting fish entrails. The sun is much harsher, and the foul stench of fish burns her nostrils. (The fish itself is long gone - the best of it whisked off to the Capitol, the rest disappearing just as fast into the hands of hungry fishermen's wives. Any scraps were quickly snatched up by poor beggars and stray dogs.) Surprisingly, the usual crowd of feral district children aren’t running up and down the marketplace screaming, but are instead huddled around the end of the dock, staring down at the murky green water beneath them. The oldest among them, still only seven years old, is watching with horror in his eyes while the littler ones screech and point.

Annie’s torn - she knows she probably shouldn’t go over, but, like most six year olds, the thrill of such a mystery and the desire to be included in whatever’s happening is immensely alluring. In the end, her curiosity gets the better of her and she scampers over to see what’s wrong. The boy is trying to tug a small, wailing girl away from the edge of the dock by the time Annie reaches them. The girl is kicking and sobbing, gesturing wildly towards the water as the surrounding children look uneasy, their gazes flickering between the spectacle on land and whatever it is in the sea. Annie pushes her way towards the front of the crowd, squeezing through the array of children until she can see the ocean. She gapes.

A mangy ginger kitten bobs in the water, struggling with the waves lapping against the side of the dock. He hisses and spits at the deep green sea, batting at it with hiss tiny paws as if the ocean was another street-cat attempting to steal his well-earned dinner. The animal obviously belongs to the small girl, who is now calling out to him, telling him to “Swim! Swim, Cap’n!” in a high-pitched cry. Even at her young age, Annie realises why no-one was doing anything about the cat, why the boy was attempting to pull the little girl away. After all, the small cat was almost certainly a stray the girl had picked up from outside the fishery while her parents were working.

(Assuming she had parents. Most of the children who hung around the docks either had drunken, absent parents who worked all day and were out all night, or lived at one of the community homes.)

The kitten was just one more hungry mouth to feed. No-one was going in to rescue a scrappy, flea-ridden pest.

(He was expendable. Only worth something until it was decided he was no longer useful. Rather like the district’s children.)

Annie crouches down, carefully testing the creaking wooden boards. Then, before she can think too much about what she’s going to do, she swings one leg around one of the pilings (carefully avoiding the crusty barnacles) and shimmies down the slippery pole. She stops a few inches from the water, and stretches out a hand towards the tiny cat. Above her, the dock children shout excitedly. The creature hisses at her, swiping a furious paw in her direction. The action would have been fairly frightening if the kitten hadn’t accidentally splashed himself in the face, leaving him coughing and spluttering pitifully. Annie sees her chance, and reaches towards the animal before he can react. “Gotcha,” She murmured, pulling the animal up and dumping him on the dock above her. She clambers up after him. There’s a high pitched squeal as the girl manages to break free of the older boy’s restraint and comes running towards her.

“Cap’n!” she cries, and picks the sopping wet, shivering kitten, cuddling it fiercely. After a moment of fussing, she turns to Annie. “S’real good of ya to save ‘im for me,” She says gruffly, in the same strange accent all the trawlers and lower class workers have when they speak. “Pike wanted to leave ‘im there, but ya showed ‘im, yeah?” Annie nods slowly. ‘Pike’ is watching warily from the middle of the dock, gesturing for Annie’s new acquaintance to come join the rest of the group. The girl in question simply scowls at him before turning back to Annie.

“I’m Isla. What’s your name?”

“Annie Cresta,” She replies a little nervously.

“D'ya wanna come play with us, Annie Cresta?” Isla grins toothily.

Annie beams back, matching her smile. “Yes, please!”


	2. Reaping

She’s twelve years old, and forcing herself to eat her breakfast of cold rice and fish. Always fish. It’s her first year in the reaping, and her older brother's third. The rest of her sibling’s are (thankfully) still too young.

(She’s got five of them now - siblings, that is.)

Annie’s mother looks worried as she tugs a comb through her eldest daughter's tangled brown hair. They’ve all got to attend the reaping today, like every other citizen in the district, like every other citizen in Panem, but Annie’s father still hasn’t come home from his shift.

(It’s a public holiday, their only public holiday, so where is he?)

There’s a clatter as Wade, the youngest, pushes over the pile of oyster-collecting buckets at the door, and father is momentarily forgotten in the rush to clean up the sharp shells before they can cut the toddler's delicate feet. Annie’s older brother, Gil, pokes his head out the door of the boy’s bedroom to see what all the fuss is about.

It’s her first year in the reaping, and everyone’s stressed out.

The clock in town chimes eight times, and Annie’s mother sighs. “Come on darling’s, we need to leave now. I’m sure your father will-”

She’s interrupted when the door flies open, and Annie’s father barges in. He doesn’t mutter a word of greeting to any of the family, simply rushing past them all to get to his room. Annie’s mother purses her lips, brow creasing, but says nothing moments later when he emerges dressed in a new shirt. 

“Sorry I’m late, love, I promise I can explain, but…” He trails off glancing at his children.

“We can talk about it later,” Annie’s mother says curtly, scooping up Wade with one arm and herding the other kids towards the door with the other, “If we don’t leave soon…” She doesn’t need to finish the sentence. Both Annie and Gil have been selected for the reaping pool, and need to be there in time so they can smile and look pretty for the Capitol’s cameras. 

(With a district as big as four, having all the names in one bowl simply isn’t feasible. Instead, a smaller pool of tributes are randomly selected during the weeks leading up to the ceremony.)

The walk into the town square is silent and tense. Annie knows something’s going on between her parents, and the added pressure of reaping day isn’t helping. When they reach the crowds, Mrs Cresta kisses both her children firmly, pulling them into a tight hug. Annie can feel her mother’s racing heartbeat as she throws her arms around her.

(Maybe for the last time.)

It’s an irrational fear, she knows it is. Even if her name is the one they call out, someone will volunteer. Someone will take her place, take the glory, the riches if they win.

(Or certain death if they don’t. Strangely, this doesn’t usually deter the volunteers, who have trained their whole life for this moment, as if it was their assigned career)

Then she and Gil weave their way through the crowds, holding each other's hands tightly right up until the moment they have to let go. The peacekeeper identifies her, and then she’s corralled off towards the twelve year old females section. The square is abuzz with sound, crowded with people spilling out onto the streets. Peacekeepers line the boundaries, pressed against the sides of the roads. It’s almost as though they’re trying to blend in with the shadows. It’s not working. They probably should’ve tried wearing something brown or blue, as the stark white of their uniforms stick out like a sore thumb from the majority of the crowd, who (despite being dressed in their finest clothes) still appear a little rough around the edges in their shapeless cotton dresses and slightly stained linen shirts.

“Hey! Annie, over ‘ere!” a voice shouts. It’s Isla, who’s been one of her closest friends ever since the incident at the docks. Annie grins weakly at the small, sandy haired girl and pushes through the rows of girls until she reaches the edge of the roped off area, close enough to stand side by side.

(Isla wasn’t selected this year, luckily. Pike was, though, and Annie thinks she can see him in the male side of the crowd, talking to Gil and another boy)

“Hey,” Annie replies, slightly breathless with nervous energy. Isla seems to pick up on this, and slips a hand through the fence, grasping her own small, freckled one.

“There's only one ‘Annie Cresta’ in that bowl, and it’ll be a volunteer this year anyways,” she says confidently. Annie attempts another smile, and squeezes her friends hand in thanks.

Onstage, the escort (was Leto Lymit her name?) prances about, adjusting the reaping bowl twice and fixing her powdery blue wig at least five times. Annie thinks she pretty much embodies the Capitol - tottering about on towering heels, adorning her hair with fake starfish and crabs (she supposed it was Leto’s way of showing spirit, however misguided). The mayor looks slightly disgruntled, pursing her lips as the other woman pouts and giggles for the cameras as she finally makes her way towards her seat. 

The mayor clears her throat, moves up towards her podium, shuffles her printed palm cards and begins the speech.

“Hundreds and hundreds of years ago, our ancestors battled against the terrors they themselves had created, the disasters they allowed to manifest…” 

It’s the same speech as last year, as the year before, and the year before that. It’s always the same story, of the catastrophes, and the wars, and the Dark Days, of how the Capitol has saved us all from ourselves, has graciously granted us a chance to repent. The only difference this time is that Annie listens to it from inside the ropes, watching the reaping bowls anxiously. Only one of the small slips of paper has her name on it, but eight have GILLIGAN CRESTA printed on them in neat little letters. When her brother was thirteen, he ended up taking out enough tesserae for the whole family, as their mother was once again heavily pregnant with Wade and their father had slipped on the slimy fishery floor and broken his arm, taking three weeks off work during the busiest season. When it became apparent he wouldn’t be able to go back until it was properly healed, Gil marched himself down to the Justice Building and signed up for a year's worth of grain and oil for each of them. Their mother was furious, but there was no changing what had already been done and Gil insisted she use the money that would have otherwise bought their meals to pay for the proper healthcare Mr Cresta required.

Thankfully, times had changed and the next year both Annie’s parents returned to work (their paying work, that was. Every able citizen in Four was required to work long shifts down by the docks during the summer and spring - failure to reach their monthly quotas resulted in severe restrictions and weeks of near starvation.)

The mayor pauses, and for a whole ten seconds the only sound in the town square is of squawking seagulls and waves crashing onto the shore. The woman then puts down her script and picks up another piece of paper, clearing her throat again.

“We, District Four, honour our Victors, who are as follows: Mags Flannagan, Victor of the eleventh Hunger Games; Trenton Reef, Victor of the twenty-ninth Hunger Games; Muscida Selkirk…” She goes on, naming each of the Victor’s seated by the edge of the stage. As their name is called, the cameras zoom in on each of their faces, projecting the images up onto the two large screens on either side of the podium. Most of the Victors make an effort to smile or wave at the crowds, but Annie notices a couple of them glowering unhappily the moment the camera moves on.

(Strange. They certainly shouldn’t have anything to worry about - they’re out of the reaping for good)

When the mayor reaches the end of her list, which seems fairly long compared to, say, District Seven’s (or God forbid, District Twelve’s), but pales in comparison to District Two’s, the crowd give a rather half-hearted round of polite applause. She introduces Leto, then slumps back into her chair beside Mrs Flannagan, the oldest of Victors. Leto, to her credit, doesn’t seem put off by the unenthusiastic welcome and leaps up, trotting over to the podium with a dazzling white smile.

“Good Morning District Four!” She beams, “And Happy Reaping Day!! May the odds be ever in your favour! It’s my immense pleasure to be here today, and to have the honour of picking out the two lucky tributes for the Sixty-Fifth Hunger Games!”

Annie glances around her, and feels faintly disgusted to see so many awed faces, hanging on to the escorts every word. They are the trainees, and have been taught to believe in the great glory brought by the games since a very young age. Even now, at only twelve, she can see them practically drooling at the sight of the reaping bowls, unable to wait until it’s their turn to volunteer. 

(Annie also sees plenty of children wearing similar expressions to her own, of mingled curiosity and repulsion. They are the Trawlers, Net-weaver and Canner’s children - from the lowerclass families who could never afford the Training Academy) 

“...You all know the rules - I call your name, you come on up, I ask if there’s any volunteers, first-in-best-dressed is the protocol!” Leto’s met with a sea of blank faces, staring back, uncomprehending. “Oh, dear me, I keep forgetting you lot don’t know any of our old sayings and so! Never mind!” She lets out a tinkling laugh, “Let’s begin, then, shall we? Who’s our first lovely tribute..”

She moves towards the male reaping bowl, and sticks her long, talon-like hand into the bowl. Annie feels the churning anxiety building up inside her, because what if it’s Gil, what if it’s Gil, what if it’s - 

“Gilligan Cresta!” Annie’s stomach drops, and the building wave of anxiety seems to crash down around her, knocking the air from her lungs in a ting gasp , and leaving a dull roar echoing in her ears. It’s an awful lot like being dumped by a wave, actually. Isla grips her hand so tightly Annie would normally tell her to let go, but right now she can’t feel anything much.

“Someone will volunteer, someone will volunteer...” Isla repeats the words in a chant under her breath. With a pang, Annie realises Gil’s as much Isla’s brother as he is hers. Ever since Annie started to hang around the groups at the dock, she began to spend much more time randomly bumping into her older brother, who happened to work there. During the years she was still to young to work, she and Isla, sometimes joined by Pike, routinely met up with Gil during his lunch break to explore the rock-pools, or race down the beach, or sometimes just lay under the palm trees, breathing in the fresh, salty seaside breeze that was a welcome change from the stinking fishy smell of the marketplace. 

Annie looks over, trying to find her brother. It’s not hard. He’s standing at the very front of the rows of fourteen year old boys, staring straight back at the cameras that buzz around him. Gil betrays no sign of emotion, simply slips his hand into Pike’s (who’s standing just in front of him, looking just as terrified and anxious as Annie feels), squeezes it briefly, then stoically marches up towards the stage.

Next to her, Isla’s still murmuring, “There’ll be a volunteer, there’s always a volunteer...”

Leto grins widely, wrapping one thin hand around Gil’s wrist and pulls it up into the air in a triumphant way. “Well, then, any volunteers?”

There’s an awful, terrifying silence for a moment, and Annie starts to think that this is the one year, the one year no-one will put their hand up, and then that will mean Gil -

“I volunteer as tribute!” A clear, confident voice calls out, and suddenly the cameras aren’t pointed at the stage anymore, but at the fourteen year old boys section again, honing in on one boy in particular, standing towards the back. 

(Thinking back, Annie wonders how she could’ve missed him when she first looked over - the boy is anything but forgettable.) 

He’s tall for his age, looking closer to fifteen than thirteen, with shaggy bronze-coloured hair that droops into his eyes. However, the thing Annie notices the most about the volunteer is the way he smiles at the crowd. At first, it seemed relaxed, like this way merely a matter of who’s turn it was to wash the dishes, but when Annie looks closer, she can she the alert, calculating way he scans the audience as he moves up towards the stage, as if the people are a complicated knot he has to figure out how to undo, a puzzle to solve.

“Ooh, and who’s this?” Leto gushes, dropping Gil’s arm and moving towards the boy. In a flash, the volunteer has taken her claw-like hand, bent down slightly, and is brushing his lips to the back of her pale skin. 

“Finnick Odair, Ma’am.” He grins disarmingly at the escort, who gasps and giggles, practically melting.

“Well, aren’t you just the sweetest! And now for the lovely Mr Odair’s district partner...”

But Annie's not listening anymore, sweet relief pouring over her like cool water as she pushes her way through the rows to get close enough to throw her arms around her oldest brother. 


End file.
